Engel, Min Engel
by Jack of All Suits
Summary: - "The blackness overthrew Erik’s mind and he let his head sag against the stone floor. ‘Christine...’" -- Three years after the Opera Incident, it is not Christine who has been kidnapped, but her kidnapper.
1. Prologue: Taken

**Inspiration shook me thoroughly at 1 am and I could not ignore it's passionate plea. The following involves a concept that is common in the classic PhanPhics, and I hope to do my little twist justice.**

**Because, you see, Christine is not being kidnapped(For once). Nossir, it is our own very Erik who is the damsel in distress this time– but don't tell him I said that.**

**This is my second Phantom attempt, and my first multi-chapter thing in a LONG time, so bare with me as the story progresses. Nothing's planted in stone yet(Well, a few things are, but they're secret-like). Also, there will be no Raoul bashing here. He and Christine ARE married, so if you want insta-smexytime with Erik and Christine... well... BAH.**

**P.S: This is short... like... REAL short. New chapters will be longer, no worries!**

_**Prologue: Taken**_

The quiet of the underground lair was false enough to smell, and with a grumble Erik rose from his seat to disclose the whereabouts of who or what had managed to enter his lakeside home without tripping one unfortunate trap or another. His hand curled subconsciously around the cord of the Punjab Lasso, and Erik quietly reflected on the correct throwing posture as the silence became more pronounced; '_Twist the wrist, flick forward, one step to the front, two steps back, roll the shoulder, yank.' _The hollow, mad golden eyes that had been carved into the Ghost's face for three long years blinked at the emptiness of his home. It was always like this, but Erik did not feel alone in the slightest.

His hand clenched around the Punjab irritably and the Phantom restrained from rolling his eyes. How many times would the police insist on sending men into his lair only to turn up with nothing or, better yet, not turn up at all. It seemed foolish to him, that they would waste so much time on a man who merely wished to have the rest of his life to himself. The newly rebuilt _Opera Populaire_ was happy to report absolutely no odd goings-on since the vile incident of _Don Juan Triumphant_. Of course, the disaster had been in more than one way beneficial to business.

Erik, however, had little care for startling frivolous Opera-goers, however loudly and tunelessly Carlotta might scream and bawl. He had lost the will to frighten the living, and satisfied himself below the floor, sipping beverages that became more and more potent for every day he hid underground. It didn't matter anyway, _she_ was married to her boy and they lived a fairytale life of happiness and riches.

Erik died every time he thought of her.

The soft echo of a misplaced stone brought the Ghost back to his own mind with surprising clarity as he clenched his fist around the lasso and glowered into the shadows. He saw a brief movement and reacted instinctively, lunging forward with killing intention scrawled across his half-hidden visage just as the sensation of a blunt object across his shoulder blades drove Erik to the ground painfully, pushing himself up with a vicious snarl only to be held in place by someone's heavy boot.

"God aften, Herr Gylfason" A man bearing a thick black beard and noticeably blue eyes bent before his captive with a taunting grin.

The Norwegian threw Erik into shock for several seconds, but when the words were processed in his mind, a wicked flush of rage mottled his clear skin and the yellow of his eyes seemed to glow with promised pain. "Do not say that name!" He roared, struggling against the foot holding him firmly to the ground. "Never–" The boot upon his back shifted and a heavy knee fell against Erik's back, condemning the man to a state of silent half-consciousness, hardly aware of the man's growing smile and the sound of more captors surrounding him.

The blackness overthrew Erik's mind and he let his head sag against the stone floor. '_Christine...'_ He thought blankly, feeling hands upon his shirt and the sensation of being dragged across the rough ground.

'_Where is Christine?_'

**Translation:**

"**God aften, Herr Gylfason"(Norwegian, by the way)** – Good Evening, Mister Gylfason

**NOTE: If I screw up translations, please let me know! I'm using online translators so.. Y'know... things like that are gonna happen x.x And this fic's got A LOT of them.**


	2. Patience's Sweet Fruit

**Sorry for the HUGE delay, but that's normally how my fics go. XD My muse is selective, I know it kind of... sucks?**

**Disclaimer: Not mind... So nyeah**

_**Chapter 1: Patience's Sweet Fruit**_

A pitiful sigh drifted through Christine's lips as she leaned heavily against the window, staring across the Parisian sky with an expression of longing. Her voice was raw from the scales she had begun repeating in her state of absolute boredom, leaving the young woman to dwell in relative silence while she was plagued with wandering thoughts. It wasn't an uncommon thing for Christine to lose herself to the depths of her mind– sometimes there was scarcely anything better to be done with her life as a Comtesse when Raoul was gone on business.

"Afternoon tea, Madame Comtesse?" The door creaked open and Mari, Christine's personal maid, entered with her eyes fixated on the floor. Christine sighed, seeing only one teacup. Always one, lonely teacup. She felt bad for it– it needed company.

"Mari, would you have tea with me?" she offered bleakly, already knowing the answer that had been shot at her every afternoon for three years. In fact, had Christine not wished to maintain her dignity she would have bent to the urge to mime the words that were already forming on the woman's lips.

"Oh no, Madame," Mari said swiftly, setting the tray down and backing away hastily. The maids were all very much aware of the 'Phantom of the Opera' business, and seemed to fear associating with their mistress lest the Opera Ghost take them from their beds at night. Of course, Mari wasn't going to tell Christine such a foolhardy excuse, and instead gulped pathetically. "The impropriety of it makes my head swim." She gave a weak curtsey and left the room in such haste that one might assume Christine had bitten her.

The young Comtesse sighed weakly and fondled her teacup with bitter tears stinging her eyelids. It was always like this when Raoul left. No one came to visit, and poor Christine was left to let her dissatisfaction simmer in the center of her chest. It was understood and strongly enforced that it was strictly forbidden for a young Noblewoman to leave the estate unsupervised– yet, without a friend or companion Christine had no one to accompany her, she would feel tremendously guilty to ask a maid...

A bitter scoff rose through her sore larynx and the Comtesse laid her teacup down with more force than intended. It wasn't as though the maids enjoyed her company anyway. She heard what they said about her– about poor Erik. Their fears of her past, and of the deplorable things they often rumored may have happened in the basement of the Opera Populaire. Really, to even suggest that she had given her chastity to Erik, or worse yet, that he had a collection of human body parts... It was enough to make Christine's blood boil, though she was ashamed to admit that her once-admirable temper had been drained by the weeks alone and bitter inside her prison.

She found herself thinking of _Erik_ quite often.

A silly thing for her to do, really. Why waste time wondering about a man that most likely hated her by now– or perhaps he was dead.

Christine closed her eyes at the thought and felt bile rising in her throat. It hurt to imagine poor Erik, alone and useless beneath the Opera House, writing music that no one would hear. She sometimes hoped that he would invite Madame Giry for tea...

A bittersweet giggle rose in Christine's lips as she imagined her two stubborn, moody teachers sharing Earle Grey and biscuits, chatting about the weather that neither of them saw often. Yes, it was silly to think that Erik would ever invite _anyone_ into his abyss. Why would he bother? Last time anyone willingly went to the Fifth Cellar was to seize the Phantom's head and impale it upon a pike. Yet it took some guilty weight from Christine's shoulders to at least pretend that Erik was not so stubborn as to deny Madame Giry's offer of friendship

"Is Madame done her tea?" Christine blinked and looked at Marie, smiling pitifully down at her full cup and sloshing the lukewarm liquid across the porcelain contours with mild concentration. She giggled softly after a length of awkward silence in which Mari had been nervously watching her. Good God, she truly had spent too much time with _the phantom_ to find such humor in another's suffering. Nevertheless, her mirthful sound echoed throughout the study-turned-music room and Christine shook her head. "I'm sorry, Mari, I suppose I wasn't thirsty after all."

"That's no worry, Madame." The maid crossed the room and hefted the tray onto her hip. "Is there anything else you'd like, perhaps?"

Christine quietly looked through the window and watched as the heavy, pregnant clouds broke apart and the sun peeked through hopefully. "Could you ready a carriage to take me to the _Opera Populaire_?" It was time to stop running from her past. If _it_ wasn't done now, she would never work up such courage for the remainder of her living years... _it_ was more important to Christine than Raoul's approval today, and she would have to act while she had the bravery to do so.

Mari's eyes narrowed slightly. "Would you like a companion, Madame Comtesse?" She asked wearily, hinting cautiously towards the impropriety that Christine was risking to bring upon herself.

"No, not today Mari. I have old friends at the Opera House."

"Yes Madame."

Christine sighed in relief when the door shut. It was likely that Raoul would hear tell of her return to the _Opera Populaire _the moment he passed the estate threshold, but she had to stay firm. This was necessary– Christine refused to hide in fear of her demons anymore, and so help her she _would_ talk to Erik even if it meant swimming across the lake herself.

It would be wonderful to see Meg and Madame Giry as well.

Christine let her mind wander blissfully as she pulled her thick red coat over the sleeves of her modest gown, calmly buttoning the front and pressing away any wrinkles. Raoul was due home any day now, but what were the chances that he would return the one time she did away with his law and left the estate– of all three months he had been gone, what kind of luck would Christine have if he showed up today of all days?

"Madame, the coach is ready."

She looked up in surprise, unaware that her mind had been so lost in her pondering. A smile spread across Christine's lips in due time and she rubbed her cheeks to establish that there were no embarrassing messes upon the delicate surface. "Thank you, Marie." She finally said, exiting the study and trailing the maid as they twisted through the DeChagny estate.

Christine felt rather depressed the further they went, taking in the quiet appearance of the manor. It was too big for a little woman to be so alone in. Sometimes she dreamt of her petite dressing room, almost longing for the days when she had a broken bureau, a bed, a mirror and twenty feet of space to call her own. It felt snug in the Opera House. Safer.

Maybe that could be attributed to Erik's protective nature.

A smile addorned Christine's visage and Mari cast the woman a strange look as she opened the front door slowly, letting the miserable spring air whip through the foyer. "When will we expect you back, Madame Comtesse?" The maid asked with a vaguely suspicious edge to her voice, though Christine only wrapped her coat tighter around her torso and smiled.

"Oh... I think I'll stay for dinner." It was only noon, anyway. That would give her plenty of time to meet everyone and(hopefully) satisfy her curiosity for the Underground Angel.

Mari nodded and gestured towards the De Chagny carriage. "Yes, Madame. Have a good trip." She waited until Christine had left the doorway, and before the younger woman had even uttered a polite thank-you, the door was barred to the chilly breeze and Christine lowered her head against the sting of rejection.

She didn't spare the driver a glance as the horses were stirred into action and she was safely locked into the compartment, sitting quietly as the coach lunged forward and the soft clip-clop of hooves resonated through her ears. Christine closed her eyes and let the time pass, imagining the various ways her day could go.

The best scenario was for her to see Erik, have something of a half-way civil conversation and leave just as easily to visit Meg and Madame. It was so unlikely that Christine had to laugh at the very notion. She and Erik got along like a house on fire– literally. When he wasn't terrifying her into submission they fought like... like... Oh, like a cat and a dog.

Those thoughts brought up Christine's worst-case scenario in which she was to spend six hours trying to pound her apologies into an irrational and furious Phantom. He would say something hurtful and she would counter accordingly. Thus would Christine be forced to hurry home, missing all chances of meeting with her other friends. Of course– she smiled bitterly to herself– Raoul would be waiting at the door when she returned.

No...

Christine grimaced and kneaded her forehead.

The worst that could happen would be the case in which she wouldn't come home at all.

The coach rattled incessantly as it hurried over the cobblestones. Christine lifted the curtains and watched with affection as the city children rushed to and fro across the streets, accompanied by dogs, cats and all assortment of other creatures. They were innocent, and a soft sigh pushed against her chest as Christine let the expensive layer of cloth fall back over the window. She could still recall the days when she and her papa would wander the streets like that. Christine would play with the children while her father played his music.

The peace that overthrew her soul brought the infamous phrase to her: Whatever will be, will be... there is no avoiding fate.

She felt the carriage slowing and adjusted her petticoat and fiddled with the ring Raoul had slipped onto her finger three years ago. Christine allowed herself another moment of thought before pulling the curtains of her mind tightly together and regaining a semblance of dignity as the door swung wide open, allowing the Comtesse to step out elegantly, looking upon the building before her with awe.

"Shall I accompany you to the door, Madame?"

"No, Jacques, thank you kindly." Christine flashed the loyal driver a smile and he politely tipped his hat before climbing back aboard the coach and clucking his tongue.

"I shall return at six, then, Madame Comtesse." He said, drawing the horses in a wide circle around the street.

"Yes, that will do perfectly." She watched as he urged the animals in a trot and took the first step towards the Opera House, feeling anxiety well up in her chest as she pushed upen the magnificent doors and let the grandeur of the foyer spill onto the street. Christine smiled at the welcome sight, but felt a twinge of regret that she stood now as a visitor– no longer a ballet rat.

"**What do you mean?!**"

Christine grimaced at the sound of Antoinette Giry, who seemed no less than irate as her voice floated down the grand staircase. With a curious expression, the Comtesse quietly moved into the shadows, ignoring the quiet voice in her mind that suggested an old face who was quite famous for doing so. She watched in fascination as Madame Giry stormed down the stairs with her expression filled with rage and– Christine felt more curiosity burn her soul– dread.

"Madame, please. You cannot just barge into the streets like a madwoman!" Behind the older woman was a man whose odd appearance threw Christine into further shock. His skin was tanned far darker than any Parisian resident's, and he too seemed extremely agitated as he chased the ballet mistress down the staircase. His short black hair was damp with sweat and even from a distance Christine could see small creases upon his face. "There is nothing you can do alone." His voice held a lilting accent that she immediately decided was foreign of any place she had ever visited.

Madame Giry whipped around. "Monsieur, I have always trusted that you are a good man to befriend him, but if we do not do _something_." She made a feral noise. "_Mon dieu_, the nerve of them!"

The foreign man sighed loudly. "Something will be done, Madame. We know that they are Norwegian, and I have an inclination as to where they may be going." He held up a hand to stop her rant before it had begun. "Patience is a bitter plant, but it's fruit is sweet, Madame."

"Don't give me proverbial nonsense, Monsieur Khan! Where is he?"

Christine watched as silence fell over the two of them and she felt horror settle in her chest. They couldn't be talking about _him... _She bit back a useless cry and waited for the man– Monsieur Khan, apparently– to regain his bearings and reply.

"I believe they will take Erik to Bangsund, a small village in Norway." The man finally said.

Christine put her hand over his heart and felt, for a moment, a fain sensation in her head. Erik wasn't even here. The irony of the situation was not lost to the woman and had she been of lesser loyalty to her teacher, she may have felt he deserved it, for it seemed that her kidnapper had become the kidnapped.

"Where is Bangsund?" She finally asked boldly, stepping away from the shadows and watching a multitude of expressions flit across their faces. Both ended in dumb shock as Christine adjusted her skirt and waited for an answer, refusing to show how quickly her head was spinning. Erik was not here... yet why would he have any sort of connection to Norway? She had never once heard him mention any exploits beyond Russia and Persia.

Monsieur Khan looked sidelong at the Ballet Mistress and uttered a soft, foreign word. "I warned you that speaking of this would lead to trouble, Madame."

Madame Giry, however, recovered in due time and rushed forward to embrace the girl she had taken as a second daughter, squeezing Christine against her chest in a grip that the young Comtesse could not argue against as she felt the older woman's arms shaking with suppressed emotion, though Christine couldn't tell if it was for Erik's wellbeing or Christine's return. After several long seconds Madame Giry turned to the stranger with a halfway bemused expression. "Surely Erik described her enough for you to recognize Christine Daae... now Comtesse De Chagny."

Christine smiled at the flabbergasted look upon his face, instinctively reasoning that this man, like poor, lost Erik, was a difficult one to catch off guard. Her thought was solidified when his expression slid back into neutral ground, and the foreigner offered his hand to her. "I'm sorry, Madame. I should have realized." He brought her hand to his lips briefly before straightening. "I am Nadir Khan, an old acquaintance of Erik's. He told me much about you."

Christine looked away, feeling awkward at the mention of Erik. She turned back at the man– Nadir was his name, apparently– and offered a shy smile. "I'm pleased to have met you, Monsieur... but can you please tell me what happened?"

The older pair glanced at each other unsurely, as if pondering the better route to take. At last Nadir offered Christine an apologetic look and gestured towards the stairs. "This conversation would be better heard without fear of anymore eavesdropping–" She looked down sheepishly and he laughed tensely. "No, Comtesse, you deserve to know, but the fact remains that if you could overhear us, anyone else could have the same fortune." Nadir took the staircase two steps at a time. "When we reach Madame Giry's quarters, I'll tell you both what I know– or at least what I think I know." He paused and at the top of the staircase looked at them "And what I am permitted to tell you."

The pathway through the Opera House was clear, something Christine found rather unusual, but took in stride. She had been absent for three years, maybe something had changed. It wasn't as though she had expected to come back and find everything the same, already she could see the crispness of the new walls, as well as the sooty texture of the stone walls. Time had passed, and perhaps it was now Christine who was stuck in the past.

"The _Corps de Ballet _were given a free afternoon due to the new catwalks being built above the stage." Madame Giry explained off-handedly. "Luckily I didn't join them or I'd have missed Monsieur Khan when he ran out of the basement like the devil was at his heels." She fixed him with a deathly glare and he smiled politely.

"Please, Madame, call me Nadir." Her expression darkened at the impropriety of it, but his smile only grew. "I'm afraid that after twenty years of Erik, no glare shall ever compare." Madame Giry huffed irritably and Christine sighed in relief as the three of them slipped into the ballet mistress' quarters.

"Monsieur– Nadir." She glanced at the woman who had been a surrogate mother to her and gained confidence at the faint nod she was issued. "What happened?"

Nadir took in a momentous breath, as if pondering the tale himself, and began:

_The cab bobbed down the main street of Paris at a lofty speed, and with a mildly irritated sigh, the Persian pressed his forehead against the wooden interior, letting the cool material sooth his travel-frayed nerves. He was once again traveling to meet Erik, this time after four very long years, three of which apparently had been devastating on his old friend. _

_Nadir shook his head sadly as the opera house came closer, and he adjusted himself to be able to escape the confines of the coach within moments of stopping. It was a terrible thing that Erik had been forced to watch his heart break again, but it was something they had always talked about, and something that Nadir was quite used to being thrown out of the Phantom's lair for._

_It was probably because Erik knew as well as he did that Christine would never love him._

_Nadir allowed the coach to slow to a stop and leapt out, pressing several coins into the driver's hand before slipping around the side of the opera house and fiddling with a hidden lock. It was an easier way to enter Erik's home, without having to cross through all five cellars, this trapdoor would lead one directly to the center of the fifth, hardly a hair's width from the lakehouse._

_Before he entered, Nadir glanced down to assure himself that there would be solid ground beneath his feet. Erik was always threatening to flood the secret entrance for fear that someone unwelcome would enter. The earthen floor, however, was as solid as ever, and with a soft sigh of relief, Nadir slipped into the darkness and gently closed the door behind him. _

_Three paces into the hallway, however, Nadir realized something was terribly wrong. It was so obvious that, for a moment, his intelligent side berated him for not realizing: Every torch leading to the lake was brightly lit... Erik would never leave them burning for some trespasser to find their way. Rather than continue, Nadir pressed his hands against the wall, feeling along the surface until his hand came in contact with a latch. He gently pulled it out and grimaced as the stone wall– now a door– groaned under the strain of moving, but eventually Nadir managed to slip through the crack without much difficulty, and found the new corridor was also surprisingly well-lit. He had never bothered to enter this section of the labyrinth, for Erik had made quite sure to remind him that he was not welcome to come this way._

_He slowly moved forward and found that the light was spilling in through windows in the wall. Nadir felt curiosity welling within his chest. He'd never seen any such openings in Erik's lakeside home. In face, all he could recall on this side of the house were mirrors..._

_Mirrors!_

_The Persian recklessly stood before one of the glass panels and felt a certain amount of pride to have discovered another one of Erik's clever tricks. To think that the man was so paranoid that he had ways to look into his own home as a ghost. The sight that met Nadir's eyes, however, left dread in the place of pride. _

_Erik was slowly entering the center of the main, shoreline area. His hands were tightening around the Punjab lasso and Nadir looked to and fro from his own hiding place. It seemed that The Opera Ghost was also aware that his house was not as vacant as one might come to believe. Yet, for the life of him, Nadir couldn't see anyone._

_Until, of course, Erik threw his lasso towards a man in the shadows and, in a flurry of movement he was pinned to the ground brutally, twisting and scratching like a captured wildcat. Nadir counted the men protruding from every corner of the house and was shocked to see seven, thick, muscular men– each more than capable of pinning down a slight man such as Erik._

_Nadir felt sweat beading in his brow when the man above Erik knelt down and said something... he pressed his ear against the mirror and heard the muffled sound of the Phantom's renewed struggle. What had the man said?_

_The Persian winced sympathetically when Erik was rendered speechless by a blow to his back, and Nadir reigned his anger to listen intently again as the men began conversing._

"_Vi avreise om formiddagen." The man announced, and Nadir growled irritably, trying to decipher the flowing Norwegian. We... morning... "We what in the morning?" He muttered crossly._

"_Knytte seg inne baksiden av vognen." Nadir almost missed their next sentence completely, but managed to decipher 'him...back of...'. While a stray man grabbed Erik's shirt collar he assumed they were going to do something with the Opera Ghost._

_There seemed be silence for several minutes as the men spoke amongst themselves, too quietly for Nadir to hear until one of them– a short, brutish blonde– burst into laughter and shook their captive like a prized trophy. "Kanskje denne ville løse på henne tungen!" It was shouted, and Nadir heard every word clearly. To himself he muttered the phrase softly. "Maybe... this will loosen her tongue?"_

_His eyes widened and the Persian fled to the upper levels before the felons had ever realized his existence._

"And how are we to fund an expedition to Norway?" Madame Giry asked abruptly when Nadir had finished his depressing tale. She had not yet commented on what the Persian had revealed, though Christine had her mouth covered in horror. "And under what pretense? I highly doubt the managers would support my leaving to save the Opera Ghost– Oh, Christine... you know it is true... please don't look so hurt."

The girl nodded shakily and hugged her torso. "Who is the woman they were speaking of, Monsieur Khan?" She asked softly.

Nadir ignored Madame Giry's question for the time being and instead focused on Christine. "I cannot tell you without overstepping a boundary set by Erik himself. We can save him just as easily without revealing anything he does not want known." He looked at Antoinette briefly and sighed against his will. "I'm afraid I don't have the ability to financially support three people all the way to Norway, let alone a fourth, possibly wounded, companion on the way back."

Christine sat up straight. "Don't worry about costs." She said softly, twisting her thumbs awkwardly. "Raoul and I can pay for whatever is needed... as long as..." The young woman began to weep softly and fell into Madame Giry's awaiting arms.

Nadir grimaced awkwardly and took his leave as quietly as he could, leaving the troubled girl with her surrogate mother. "Oh, Madame..." Christine sobbed. "I feel so guilty... I came here today to apologize to poor Erik..." She howled softly. "What if he never knows how sorry I am, Madame?"

Antoinette Giry had spent her life consoling young women, yet to see her girls– Meg and Christine- cry had always torn a hole in her heart, and her motherly instincts rocked the Comtesse gently. "Christine, _Christine, _Erik will never hold your choices against you, child. He acts out of sadness and loneliness, and that is why he is so bitter." Madame Giry wiped away Christine's tears and smiled sadly. "But he has never– will never doubt the goodness of your heart, Christine. He will accept you apology when we find him and you shall be his friend, _oui_?"

"_Oui, Madame_." Christine murmured into her shoulder, hiccuping gently.

Antoinette stood then and held a hand out to Christine. "You must hurry home at once, Christine, and find some way to contact Raoul... we will not be able to save Erik without the De Changy fortune behind us." She led the young Comtesse to the doorway and smiled bitterly. "Is it ironic, Christine, that the kidnaper had become the kidnaped?"

**Tranlations:**

_Vi avreise om formiddagen._ – We leave in the morning

_Knytte seg inne baksiden av vognen._ – Tie him in the back of the Carriage

_Kanskje denne ville løse på henne tungen_ – Maybe this will loosen her tongue.


End file.
